


help me, my sky has fallen (& i am too far)

by sinningjul (Julx3tte)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Smut, Blue Lions Perspective, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Hurt/Comfort, Kinktober, Possessive Sex, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Rough Sex, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:08:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26871928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julx3tte/pseuds/sinningjul
Summary: It’s like the sky is falling, Sylvain thinks, moments after they take the battlefield and find a wall of arrows soaring through the sky at them. The sky is falling and there’s nothing I can do about it.Sylvgrid with the Blue Lions, but it's Black Eagles route canon.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 15
Kudos: 38





	help me, my sky has fallen (& i am too far)

**Author's Note:**

> hits on my friends, as promised
> 
> thanks to liv for the beta

_ It’s like the sky is falling _ , Sylvain thinks, moments after they take the battlefield and find a wall of arrows soaring through the sky at them.  _ The sky is falling and there’s nothing I can do about it _ .

This whole war has been chess, and they’ve just made a costly error. They should have known that Byleth would know how they’d attack the fortress. They should have anticipated their defenses, should have expected Edelgard to not even be there at all. Sylvain shoves the criticism of Dimitri’s battle plans down his throat as he looks up at the sky and clenches his fist around the Lance of Ruin.

It’s too late. It’s far, far too late to stop the flyers. They’ve turned around already, but the first wall of arrows is about to hit and all Sylvian can do is raise his shield and deflect the hail of pointed edges sailing towards him and watch through the gaps as Ingrid falls.

His heart falls with her. 

He knows war, knows the costs. He knows that promises are kept through fate and luck, not effort, and knows that he needs to be prepared to lose any of them - Fel, or Mercedes, Annette and Ashe and Dedue - at any time. All of them, for Dimitri’s head or Edelgard’s.

But he’s made a promise to Ingrid anyway and there's a sickening frost spreading through his lungs as he watches Ingrid’s pegasus catch an arrow on the leg, stumble in the air, and get pierced by another half dozen on each wing.

She falls out of the sky like a star.  _ His _ star, and he holds the shield up until Dedue can get in and drag out the survivors.

They retreat immediately, and he doesn’t see Ingrid for hours. It’s a blur of movement, of issuing orders and getting far enough away to make sure they weren’t being chased; Sylvain rides up to the command battalion and tries to figure out exactly what the hell happened and meets Dimitri’s eyes and barely holds himself back.

_ It’s a losing FUCKING war Dimitri. When are we gonna give it up _ ? They’re words he’d never say to the man - not after everything, not after this, but ones that burst from his gut and dare to ruin what friendship he’s managed to rebuild with the man.

Felix can tell he’s not handling things well, because halfway through the silent ride back, he gives him a look and hands him the scroll with the casualty report. Sylvian’s eyes flick to Ingrid’s name and exhales for the first time in what feels like days.

_ Commander Galatea - broken foot, significant bruising. Healer - Mercedes _ .

It’s nearly a miracle, to fall so far and have barely any injuries, and by the time they make camp she’s lucid enough to see him.

Ingrid smiles weakly and Sylvain’s face softens an inch. His hands weave into hers as Mercedes steps into the tent, cloth in hand, and replaces one of Ingrid’s bandages.

“Lucky fall. Your pegasus took the worst of the impact and your armor did what it was supposed to,” she says with little inflection. “You’ll be out at least a month, but it’ll take us that long to recover our forces anyway.”

Mercedes looks at Sylvain, glances at Ingrid, and looks Sylvain in the eye again. “She’s fine, Sylvain,” she adds, patting him on the shoulder and stepping out of the tent again to see the rest of the injured.

It doesn’t make Sylvain feel any better about it all. Ingrid squeezes his hand. “Bring me bread?”

* * *

Ingrid’s slow recovery doesn’t raise Sylvain’s spirits any more, either. If anything he’s  _ too _ impatient, and Ingrid kicks him out of her tent after a week of him hovering in her space and waiting on her.

“I’m fucking fine, Sylvain,” she says hobbling over to him with her crutches in one arm and her empty tray in the other. She shoves the dirty dishes into his arms and gives him a glare. “I’m still here. Just give me a few days.”

Then, she ushers him out and makes it clear that he’s not to actually come spend more than a few minutes at a time with her.

It just pisses him off more. Sylvain can’t get the sight out of his brain. 

_ Thousands of dots in the sky, shading the sunlight as their army approached, Ingrid’s white pegasus in the foreground making a tight turn and jolting as it took a dozen arrows at once. Ingrid twisting in the air, trying to keep the pegasus under her to catch her fall. Half the battalion wiped in an instant as they retreat, and Dedue’s forces surging forward to rescue them _ .

He breaks a training spear on a dummy when Felix finds him a few hours later.

“Syl,” he says, approaching with a wooden sword. 

“Fel.”

Felix doesn’t say anything else. He just approaches, one hand tucked behind his back in proper sword form. Sylvain doesn’t give him an inch, lets him get exactly close enough to feign a slash and take out his knees, and stops an angry slash of his spear an inch from Felix’s face.

The other man just snorts, and Sylvain snarls. Felix gets up and walks away while Sylvain stands, frozen and pissed trying not to lash out at his brother.

Felix gets out of the spear range and flips his sword over his shoulder. 

“Just tell him. It was a bad call and he knows it.”

Sylvain feels the heady, lingering frustration erupt.

“It’s not that, Fel. It’s not one fucking battle, one tactical miscalculation. We’re fighting a losing FUCKING war and he needs to-”

Felix stops on his heel, turning his head and cuts him off with a glare.

“Then tell him,” he says, letting the air hang in between them. A cicada clicks in the silence before Felix adds, “but we both know that’s not why you’re pissed.”

The words come out of his mouth before he can stop it. “And if it was Annette falling from her mount?”

The look on Felix’s face makes his blood run cold. Sylvain can see his fists clench and release and he replies and walks away, leaving Sylvian even more frustrated. 

“Then I would tell her.”

* * *

The rest of the Blue Lions steer clear of him for the next few days, and Ingrid catches wind at exactly the worst time. Sylvain’s stomping through the stables looking for something to keep his hands busy when he turns a corner to find Ingrid by the remaining pegasi, leaning against the splintered shed they’d put together.

“Sylvain,” she says, nodding at him and going back to feeding a foal.

“Ing,” he says, suddenly sucking in oxygen. Seeing her alive is more jarring than closing his eyes. He’s imagined her falling so many times it feels like it’s all she is, is falling. Floating and without gravity, dropping faster than he can move.

But she’s here, standing and watching him.

“Sylvain,” she says. Ingrid nudges her head, losing a strand of hair that was tucked behind her ear, and pushing off the wall to walk. Sylvain follows her silently till they’re inside her tent, and she’s sitting on her bed and waiting for him.

“I’m still here, Sylvain,” she says. “I’m fine.” 

The look she has on her eyes, a green gaze that could level mountains, is nothing compared to the way Sylvain must be looking at her. It’s a hundred things at once: fury and frustration, helplessness and force that has nowhere to go, despair and agony and relief and  _ goddess _ , even injured and hobbling Ingrid is more beautiful than she’s ever been.

He makes it two steps before he’s ripped his tunic off of his torso. The bruises from the last last battle haven’t healed, and his normally smooth skin is still peppered in faded reds and purples. There’s a cut at the bottom of his left rib that he’s been nursing for weeks and won’t heal.

Sylvain’s legs don’t fare much better. His hips have ached for a year, riding to battle on horse after horse, and as he strips off his pants he feels the wince of fabric pulling on an old wound.

Ingrid’s expecting what he does, but it doesn’t stop her from gasping when he rips her shirt right off of her, yanking it over her head and not caring that it nearly tears from the back. It doesn’t stop him from enjoying it, either. 

She’s not a fragile woman, never has been, and she looks just as pissed at him as he was at whatever he’s been pissed about. It’s one thing when she’s fully dressed, but now, stripped of her top, fresh bruises on her ribs and her back and her stomach and on her shoulders visible, Sylvain feels the  _ craving _ and digs his fingernails into his palms.

How  _ fucking  _ dare. To shoot his star out of the sky, to leave her bruised and weak when she is his pillar, his guiding light. Sylvain wants to bring an end to them, to bring them to ruin and vent the full power of his crest - but he knows he can’t. It is impossible, not without dying or turning into a beast and wasting himself. It isn’t worth his life, when his life sits before him, hurt and needing space and  _ here. _

Ingrid’s lips find his before he can do anything else, and they brush past his as gentle as a feather. He wants to bite them, to capture them and hold them in between his, but Ingrid darts away each time before he can.

So Sylvain settles by using his hands, pulling away from her kiss to cup her jaw with one hand, thumb pressed in between her lips. Ingrid looks like she’s about to bite him, and spits when he uses his free hand to yank her pants off, tearing them by the seam.

Her legs are in worse shape than her torso. Half of a thigh is bruised and bandaged, and there’s a gash on the calf above her broken foot that’s been magically healed and still faintly glowing. Her foot’s in a wooden boot to keep it still and let it set, but otherwise Ingrid is stripped down already yanking him to her by the hair.

_ Mine. Mine, mine. Injured and tough and always mine _ .

His hands weave into Ingrid’s hair, both of them, fingertips on her scalp and holding her head in place so he can kiss her properly.

Ingrid huffs under him, half a sigh of satisfaction and half annoyance as one of her hands rakes his back, leaving a red trail till he moves and she can shimmy her way under him, legs framing his hips.

Her other hand clutches Sylvain by the hair and makes him look at her. Ingrid’s cheeks are burning red, hair messed and lips pursed and puffy.

“I’m  _ fine _ . Take what you need.”

It’s all he needs to hear - that she’s fine. That he can fuck her as torridly and frantically as he likes and that she’s  _ here _ , his, isn’t gone.

He tears off her underwear with a  _ snap _ of the waistband, rips his own and sinks into her without warning, leaving Ingrid to grasp his hair and dig her nails into his shoulder as his hips slump into hers.

They’ve always done it like this. In heat right after battle, they find each other in a tent or behind some ruined building and find  _ relief _ . Always from almost losing each other. It surprised Sylvain, when Ingrid shoved him to the ground the first time they fucked and rode him in the dirt, armor still half worn. He hasn’t been surprised since.

Ingrid’s always been his star, illuminating the parts of him he’d rather keep in the dark. She’s always set him aflame, and it’s no surprise as he drags his cock inside of her that it feels like his body is burning.

His hips are already tense - joints aching from the strain of holding his weight, his back bent so that he can lean over Ingrid and take her earlobe between his teeth and press his ear just next to her mouth so that he can hear the beautiful sounds of her whimpers as he fucks her.

The  _ thump _ of the bed rising and falling against the floor is cadent and coarse. Sylvain’s rhythm is measured in lengths, as he slides out of Ingrid till just the barest bit of him is inside of her before bucking forward. It’s a rhythm measured in breaths, as Ingrid gasps before she can take in a full breath.

Sylvian’s arms burn, too, holding the rest of his weight so that he doesn’t crush Ingrid’s still recovering ribs. His own grunts perforate the air, deep heave of oxygen into his lungs so that his body has enough strength. The heat builds within his core. Ingrid’s hands find their way behind his neck, pulling him to her till his mouth is crushed against hers and her soft whimpers are muffled by his tongue.

It’s everything. She is his everything, she is scorching him with touch and leaving ashes of his worries, of every fear lived out in the moment burned into his brain, bringing an end to them.

Sylvain finishes as he hits the deepest part of Ingrid, convulsing uncontrollably and whispering her name back into her own breath as if he needed to claim that she’s here, still, with him and in her own body. He spends the rest of his breath forming her name as the scorching heat diffuses through his body, from the part of him buried inside of Ingrid, through his aching hips and back, shocking his core into clenching and then through his spine.

“Ingrid,” he manages to whisper, tearing his mouth away to kiss her on the neck as he spills inside of her. “Ingrid, Ingrid, Ingrid. Don’t ever leave me.” 

Ingrid rubs his tired shoulders until Sylvain can breathe again.

“I will always stay,” she says, a whisper on the verge of breaking. “I will always stay.”


End file.
